And when he caught me――asked my name―― Who was it found I could _die game_? (For I kicked his shins and made him lame), The Proctor. Who was it of this aggravation, Before the vice laid accusation, Who kindly sentenced rustication? The Proctor. Who was it, when _Degree_ was near, By frowning looks taught me to fear, He meant to harass me?――Oh dear! The Proctor. Who was it said, “Sir, if you please, “I’ll trouble you to pay your fees, “We never _trust_ for _no_ degrees”? The Proctor. Who after all this long delay Examination, lots to pay, Declined to make me a B. A. ――And then got licked that very day? The Proctor. _The Gownsman._ (Conducted by Members of the University), Cambridge. No. 10. January 7, 1831. ――――:o:―――― ODE TO A BLACKGUARD. Who, nurs’d in ev’ry roguish villainy, Taught, while he shamm’d the face of truth, to lie, Who came into the world? the Lord knows why! Blucher. Who grew in size and cunning, till his eye, Trained to its art, gave what he meant the lie, Who, young in years, grew old in roguery? Blucher. Who trains a dog, which, Freshmen thinking cheap, Purchase, which leaves them with a homeward leap, Who keeps a dog, which no one else can keep? Blucher. Who daring impudence, the Gownsman stops, To tell him of the B――nw――l evening hops, And then, brings Proctor who upon him pops? Blucher. Who is a Judas on the face of Earth, Spirit, accomplish’d in all blackguard mirth, Whose days disgrace the region of his birth? Blucher. Would, that the Castle Bell’s prophetic clang Should call grim Newgate’s Ketch, when next it rang, That he, next Session, Justice due, should hang. Blucher. From the “Cambridge Odes,” by Peter Persius. Published by W. H. Smith, Rose Crescent, Cambridge. There is no date to this little pamphlet, nor any account of the character entitled “Blucher.” Several verses are omitted on account of their coarseness. ――――:o:―――― THE TURNCOCK. Who is it, when we’re taken ill, And slops require all day to swill, The grateful cistern helps to fill? The Turncock. Who is it, when the dreadful sound Of “Fire” echoes all around Is hardly ever to be found? The Turncock. Who is it, when upon his beat, Will very often, for a treat, Turn on the main and swamp the street? The Turncock.